My Palisades Heartbreak

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(Editor’s note: My family, the Pascoes lived on Radcliffe. It was a great street filled with people of different ages: seniors, families with middle and high school kids and then we were lucky enough to get families with elementary-aged children, including Carter Morris. It was a lovely place to live. The photos in this story were taken by one of the moms on the street, Angelica Hernandez, over the past 20 years.)

By CARTER MORRIS

Less than 1% of the world’s population loses their home to a fire. Even fewer — just tens of thousands — lose their entire town to a wildfire. This is a type of loss so rare and so overwhelming that no one can truly grasp it. Not even those who live through it.

So please, be patient. Be kind. Be gentle. This heartbreak doesn’t go away overnight.

The pain my town and I feel right now is unimaginable.

The Palisades has been my home since age nine when my family moved from Santa Monica. To know the Palisades is to know the kind of community that doesn’t just exist — it’s woven into who you are. It’s being able to walk to your best friend’s house, or living down the street from your high school ex. It’s running into someone you know every time you leave home — even when you risk showing up to Gelson’s in pajamas with messy hair.

Along with the luxury of a town that sits between the ocean and mountains comes a sense of safety and peacefulness. The Palisades was truly a family community with local meetings, a farmers market, firemen waving to children, and neighbors who feel like family. I have enjoyed the small-town camaraderie that existed there, and it’s this unique, tight-knit feeling that made the Palisades so special. It was the kind of place where you’d say, “I’m from Santa Monica,” because it was our quiet little secret — one that left most people puzzled when you mentioned where you actually lived.

It was where you had your first kiss at Palisades Park or the Beach Bash and watched high school fights break out in the canyon. It was rolling your Catholic school skirt at Corpus Christi until Sister Patricia gave you detention.

Even gas stations weren’t just gas stations — they were transformed into Cape Cod-style houses because that was just “cuter.” We all complained when Caruso built the shopping center, yet somehow spent half our lives (and wallets) at Erewhon.

Sunday mornings were for wholesome walks at the farmers market — or suffering through a hangover with a burnt bagel from Noah’s, the same place you would go every morning before elementary school with your dad. Fridays in middle school meant hanging at Palisades Garden Cafe, yelling, “Put it on my mom’s tab!” It was a rite of passage to hangout in town for hours after school just wandering the village getting up to “no good.” And high school nights were spent playing manhunt in The Huntington until Palisades Patrol caught us.

We name-dropped at Pearl Dragon, holding our breath, hoping the person we mentioned wouldn’t actually walk through the door. Christmas Eve Mass wasn’t just church — it was a social scene, even if we wouldn’t step foot in a pew again until next year.

I’d do anything to go to Corpus Christi Church now. To have Al greet my family one more time.

Every Fourth of July, families gathered at the crack of dawn for the 5K, where you (literally) ran into (and alongside) every single person you’d ever met. That afternoon, we’d all meet again for the parade in the Village, watching the two little men float down in their parachutes. Or better yet, having a float in the parade with neighbors on Radcliffe Ave. — because our street was everything.

Radcliffe was home for over a decade before we moved briefly to Galloway and then to Bollinger, but most of my Palisades memories live there. My sister and I couldn’t wait to get home from Village School, meeting in the street to toss a football with neighbors until the sun disappeared. Or in the summer patiently waiting for Jamal to come around the corner with the ice cream truck.

For more than eight years, a hole in the fence between our house and the neighbors’ meant slipping through at all hours, just showing up to see if the kids could play. It meant neighborhood block parties — and not just on Radcliffe. Every street had one.

And now, here we are. Both our house and our neighbors are gone, and we’re rushing to share our temporary home because home was never about four walls — it was about who you’re with. And if the rest of the town is scattered, you’d better believe we’ll stick together.

Of course, the majority of people you meet tell you there is nothing better than their hometown, we’re all the same. And while I’m sure there are other pleasant places to grow up, I can confirm that nothing beats the Palisades.

It’s funny how the little things you take for granted become the things you miss the most. The rhythms of everyday life — the casual hellos, the traditions you assume will always be there. The Palisades wasn’t just where we once lived; it’s part of who we are. And now, in a way that no one can prepare you for, it’s gone.

To the people who made 90272 what it is, I love you. We will rebuild.

(Carter Morris graduated from Palisades Charter High School in 2020 and then from CU Boulder last May. She moved home, to the Palisades.  Carter is working for SugarPaperLA as a Marketing Contact Coordinator.)

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